


Stay With Me

by anatomical_heart



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Death That Isn't Quite Permanent, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Not Really Character Death, Post-Purgatory, Purgatory, Study of Characters and Relationships, Violence, possibly maybe slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-11 07:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2058408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anatomical_heart/pseuds/anatomical_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing Abbie remembered before slipping into the darkness was the marble floor of the church against her back, and Crane’s fingers against her skin. The warm, womb-like glow from the candles surrounding them on the altar. The white-hot agony of the GSW to her chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I did not flag the "Major Character Death" warning because death, in this story, is not a permanent state of being.

The last thing Abbie remembered before slipping into the darkness was the marble floor of the church against her back, and Crane’s fingers against her skin. The warm, womb-like glow from the candles surrounding them on the altar. The white-hot agony of the GSW to her chest. 

 “No, no, no, no, no, no, no,” Crane murmured under his breath as he fell to his knees beside her, immediately shedding his coat and using it to apply pressure to her wound. “Lieutenant,” he cried warningly, a desperate edge in his voice meant to anchor her Here, to this world, and dissuade her from Going Toward The Light. His hand was gentle on the back of her neck as he elevated her head; Abbie’s eyes rolled back as the earth tilted sharply on its axis and searing pain began eating its way down into her marrow. Crane’s pleas echoed in her ears, growing urgent, anguished, and further away. 

Limbs heavy, toes going numb... Abbie knew she was going to die. This was not a drill, not a hypothetical. This was happening: She would be dead within a matter of minutes. 

She and Crane had tried to prepare for so many scenarios, but it was always what would happen if they were to become separated again. How they would find their way back to each other, how they would triumph over the most dire of circumstances. Together. Purgatory had almost broken them. Never again, they swore; never again. They sealed that promise in blood and tears. 

In fact, since Abbie’s return from Purgatory, the Witnesses had discussed what would happen in the event of the other’s death only once.

They had been sitting at the kitchen table in Corbin’s cabin. (Somehow, it would always be Corbin’s cabin. Abbie knew Crane had accepted that - she supposed it was why he made only the slightest alterations in decor and design... to honor him in some small way.) After everything they had been through, Crane just opened his mouth and let it fly out one day after breakfast. Like he had been waiting for the right moment to spring it on her: His death. Inevitable and in need of discussion right then, apparently.

She could hardly look at him. 

_He couldn't have known._ That’s what she repeated to herself, setting down her mug of coffee. He couldn’t have known. 

He couldn't have known she dreamt of his death every night she'd been trapped in that place. That she almost went mad from trying to keep herself awake, to keep the the images that started up almost as soon as she shut her eyes at bay. Sometimes, it was at her own hands. Those were the worst nights - when she woke up and could still feel the oil slick of his blood against her skin. Sometimes, it was at the hands of a hideous creature risen from Hell, leaving her to rot, forever imprisoned in that miserable doll house. And still other times, Crane was murdered by Katrina - the plan to rescue his beloved wife all an elaborate ruse, a trap he and Abbie had both walked into willingly, blindly. 

Abbie dreamt of Crane’s death for what felt like years by the time she was pulled out of Purgatory. They never talked about how fiercely she demanded he prove he was the real Ichabod Crane, or how fiercely she hugged him when he led her out of there. 

_He couldn't have known._

She was so angry, suddenly, she was ready to spit. 

He cleared his throat, looking increasingly uncomfortable, before continuing through the blush that stained his cheeks. _The probability of my death at the successful end of our Seven-Year Trial is..._

_No._

_I’m sorry... no?_

_No. I am not discussing this with you right now._  

_Lieutenant, I-_

She spoke slower. Louder. Like she had when they first met. Maybe the message would start to sink in. _I am not discussing this with you right now._

He flinched at the harshness of her consonants. _Miss Mills, we cannot escape the fact that I am-_

 _Crane,_ her voice was a low warning.

Blustering, scrabbling for control over the conversation, he blurted, _Miss Mills, I cannot abide-_

Abbie stood abruptly, backing away from the table as though burned, snapping, _Like hell you can’t!_ The chair she'd been sitting in slid back so quickly it toppled to the floor. The balls of her feet tingled and she could feel fire licking along her jawline, she was sure of it. She felt tense - dangerous. Spring-loaded and ready to fight her way out of this corner he was trying to back her into. She was shaking. From what, she could not say.

She stared into him for a collection of heartbeats, trying to make him stop, make him understand he had no idea what he was asking of her, before murmuring, _You can and you will._ To her, this was the end of the conversation. 

Lifting his chin in what looked like defiance, Crane placed his hands with gentle purpose onto the table and rose from his chair. Clearing his throat, voice ragged, he started, _Miss Mills, your stubborn refusal to address the very real possibility..._

 _This is the last time I will say this, Crane: We are not talking about this right now. End of story._

An eerie silence stretched between them then, charged with an electric riptide of anger and despair, panic and desperation. Something sharp and metallic, making her fingers itch to wrap around her sidearm in reflex, sensing danger. 

With one last look at him, she picked up her jacket hanging on the back of an unused chair and her car keys off the end of the table, making her way quickly to the door, her throat threatening to close up if she stayed one second longer.

 _I do not wish to leave you, Abbie!_ Crane’s fist pounding against the table’s surface accompanied his declaration, causing his teacup and saucer to jump slightly.

She stopped dead in her tracks at the sound of skin hitting wood, of porcelain clinking together. Her hand hovered over the doorknob as her stomach clenched sickly, tasting bile on the back of her tongue - a sour mixture of anger, shame, longing, and intense fear. A gasp parted her lips as she felt his words start to slip under her skin. 

_I do not wish to leave you._ This time, it was barely above a whisper, uttered just behind her, wretched and dripping in so much heartache Abbie felt the sting of his tears even as they threatened to slip down her own face. His sigh on the back of her neck made her eyes close; every instinct she had in this moment told her to run.

Perhaps somehow reading her thoughts, or perhaps because he knew her so well, Crane reached out and took her free hand. _Stay with me,_ he seemed to say.

That was it. Uncle. She felt herself give; she couldn't hide from him. Lip trembling, she leaned her forehead against the door to Corbin’s cabin, squeezed Crane’s hand, and began to weep. 

The sobs came when he wrapped his arms around her, cradling her, and it felt like coming home. Like he would never leave her.

They never broached the subject again.

  “Wake up! Abbie!” Crane was screaming. 

When her eyes opened for the last time, she saw a magnificent fresco set into the dome directly above their heads, inlaid with gold: An iconic depiction of Jesus she came to know through their research as _Christ Pantocrator, The Sustainer of the World._ In his left hand, He carried the Gospels; His right was lifted in blessing, which she accepted gratefully, relieved. In truth, His grace was never something she had sought solace in before; she had not been raised in the church. But seeing Him in that moment, as she lay dying, was comforting in a way she would never be able to fully articulate. There was a softness about His features, a warmth and humanity that felt rare and precious to her; she thought He might be saying, _Feel this moment, fully... then let it go. You are Redeemed._

“Abbie,” Crane whimpered, pleading, his face pinched with sorrow and helplessness. 

She met Crane’s gaze and watched as something broke inside of him, shattered and lost; witnessing it felt like a physical blow, a weight she could not carry.

He was splattered with blood - her own, she was dimly aware. So much blood. 

The edges of her vision began to fade as the sound of her breath rattled in her ears, raspy and wet; it wouldn't be long, now. 

Reaching up, Abbie curled her fingers around Crane’s wrist, as he reverently traced the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheekbone. “Stay with me,” he begged, a whisper; tears streamed steadily down her cheeks, but they were not her own. 

She hiccuped, struggling for air, and her heart fluttered weakly inside the cage of her ribs as Crane leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. 

There were so many things she wanted to say to him in that moment, but possessed none of the strength to form the words.

_Never enough time..._

Crane spoke into the space between them - a promise, maybe. Some solemn vow Abbie could not make out. She nodded, just the same, agreeing to whatever it was that made his heart keep beating in time to the passion lit up inside of him. 

Lifting her hand once more, she lightly pressed her fingers to his lips, giving a brave attempt at a smile, and hoping the small gesture said everything she could not. And as he kissed her fingertips, her eyes slipped closed. 

She was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Expectation was not something Abbie clutched hold of when she met her death. But, she realized afterward, it was something she had greeted What Came Next with.

Expectation was not something Abbie clutched hold of when she met her death. 

But, she realized afterward, it was something she had greeted What Came Next with. She expected Judgment. Purgatory. (Again.) The faint smell of sulfur, perhaps, before the Fire and the Pit. But greeting her broken, barely-living body in a hospital room in Valhalla, New York was not one of the things on that list of Postmortem Expectations. (And for the record: There is nothing on earth that can adequately prepare someone for the utterly incomprehensible, out-of-body experience of standing at the foot of a hospital bed, staring at _themselves_ lying comatose.)

Abbie could not say how she came to be in one of Westchester Medical Center’s private rooms, bearing witness to the consequences of surviving a gunshot wound to her chest. She remembered the church, the excruciating pain... she remembered Crane holding her as she faded and was pulled under. She remembered the moment she let go.

And then... darkness. Velvet darkness, and the divine absence of pain and suffering.

It didn’t last.

When she opened her eyes once more, it was to the gnawing, ineffable feeling that started eating away at her as she came face to face with _herself_ beneath dull fluorescent lights.

 _Is this real?_

With the hair on the back of her neck standing on end, Abbie immediately looked down at her hands. The tremors she found there surprised her. So much so that it took almost a full minute for her to fully register that she couldn’t feel her fingers; panic started clawing desperately along her throat. Remembering her training, she took a deep breath in through her nose and methodically clenched and straightened her hands until sensation began its slow return. 

Her skin felt like ice. 

A chill ran down the length of her spine as the smell of antiseptic, latex gloves, and sterile plastic flooded her senses. The mechanical gasp of a ventilator cut all the way down to her bones, accompanied by the soft, unmistakeable beeping of an EKG machine.

This was wrong; she wasn’t supposed to _be_ here. But she was.

She _was_.

Hesitant, Abbie peered down at her prone body, both curious and scared of what she might see. She looked so small. Too-still. Her face was ashen... almost wraithlike. She was practically swimming in the one-size-fits-all standard-issue hospital gown. Plastic tubing stoically performed her vital functions. It looked like she’d been ripped from Death’s clutches - like she was just barely hanging on. 

Abbie had felt Death’s invitation in her final moments, of that she was sure: It came softly - a sublime kind of inevitability which surrounded her as soon as the bullet entered her body. It came around her like a sympathetic arm around her shoulders, at once comforting and guiding her... as though Death himself were saying, _Don’t be afraid, child._

And yet, there she lay. She was alive.

_Why?_

Goosebumps rose up off her arms as she suddenly felt the presence of someone behind her, keeping watch. Someone not belonging to the world to which she was still tethered. She knew who it was. Before she could even begin to wonder who it might be, Abbie knew. And she was not afraid.

 _Of course,_ she thought. _Of course he would be here._ That infuriatingly charming, enigmatic smile on his face, no doubt. 

In truth, she wasn’t sure what she felt at Corbin’s presence. Relief, gratitude... that was there, sure as apple pie and ice cream. But there was something else, too. Suspicion, maybe - the cop in her already demanding answers she hoped he could provide. But beneath even that... a nagging feeling twisted inside of her, a sense of dread that he couldn’t give her any answers at all, and seeing him was nothing but bad news.

Abbie leaned against the footboard of the hospital bed, curling her hands along the top edge of it; she wouldn’t say it, but goddamn she needed something to hold onto in this moment. “Was this you?” 

“Was this me,” Corbin echoed, hands in his pockets as he took measured, unhurried steps until he stood beside her, not-answering her question. Amusement skirted around the edges of his words.

“Was. This. You,” she tried again. Then clarified: “Did you do this?”

A beat. Two. Three. The steady hiss of the ventilator kept the time.

“‘This?’ You mean,” he turned to look at her, “Did I keep you alive?”

She pressed her lips together, and let out a shuddering breath. How many times had this man kept her alive? Been there for her when no one else had bothered? Overcome, her eyes slipped closed, and how much she missed him felt like a tangible thing she could hold in her hands. “Yes.” It was quiet. A whisper, filled with fear and uncertainty.

He gave a small, teasing laugh - something warm and familiar - and murmured, “I gotta hand it to you, kiddo, you give me a lot more credit than I’m due.” 

Abbie could feel the smile in his reply all the way down to the soles of her feet. She knew that smile: It lit up his entire face and gave away to those privy just how much affection he had for her. But right then... paired with his words that she didn’t quite understand, it felt patronizing... like he thought it was cute she didn’t understand. Like he was holding everything just out of her grasp to see how fast she could catch up. So she opened her eyes and fixed him with a cool stare that said at once, _Get to the point. Quickly._

Nudging her gently - a reminder of _Hey, it’s still me_ \- Corbin explained, “I’m dead, Mills. I might visit you when you need some help, and I know a few parlor tricks... but I’m not God.”

She turned her face away so he couldn’t see her cheeks burn in embarrassment. She knew that. “I _know_ that.”  
   
Grinning, he put his hands up in the air and said nothing in response; he’d let it lie. For the moment, at least.

Inhaling deeply, trying to steady herself, Abbie pushed up and off the footboard, rubbing the back of her neck in an attempt to soothe the tension headache starting up at the base of her skull. Just as she thought: Corbin couldn’t give her any answers. If he had any, he would’ve shared with the class already. None of this talking in circles business, none of this nonchalance like they had all the time in the world. That wasn’t his style: If she needed to know something that was a matter of life or death he’d run his mouth like it was his job, because it was, wasn’t it? To keep her safe?

At long last, she spared a look at the figure asleep in the chair next to her hospital bed. 

_Crane._

Abbie felt the corners of her mouth lift upward, her heart swelling. “How long has he been here,” she breathed, not wanting to wake him. 

“He can’t hear you, you know,” Corbin replied drily, as if it were obvious. 

She bit the inside of her cheek, once again feeling heat creep into her face; she’d almost forgotten how exasperating he could be. Then, realization dawning: “Can he... will he be able to see me?” Her voice sounded small in her own ears. Young, vulnerable - the same voice belonging to a girl who witnessed Moloch rising to power as he rose from the depths.

Corbin sighed deeply. “No, honey.”

Abbie put a hand over her stomach as it bottomed out; she felt hollow and strange, her place in the world suddenly more precarious than when she was lost to Purgatory. 

Silence settled over the room as Abbie stepped closer to Crane. She watched the rise and fall of his chest, and said a small prayer of thanks that he’d escaped from the church in one piece. She noticed immediately that his jacket was missing - bagged for evidence, most likely. He wouldn’t stay quiet about that for long, she knew, and wondered if Irving could get it back to him sooner than the conclusion of the investigation; Crane had gone through too much with that coat just to have it rot in the Sleepy Hollow Sheriff's Department’s Evidence Room. His customary half-ponytail was gone, and greasy locks hung messily about his face. That obnoxious-yet-perpetual five o’clock shadow he refused to part with had swiftly turned into a full-on beard, and dark circles had formed beneath his eyes. At the very least, the man looked like he needed a shower, a shave, and a new pair of clothes. Nevertheless, a private smile crept onto her mouth, accompanied by a sweet and terrible ache inside her chest at the mere sight of him.

Without thinking, Abbie reached out and tucked his hair behind his ear, relieved to see the lines of concern that had etched themselves into his brow easing as she did so.

“He rode over in the ambulance with you,” Corbin murmured from over her shoulder. “Hasn’t left your side since you got out of surgery.”

Tears formed in Abbie’s eyes at hearing those words, her lip trembling. For a brief moment, she forgot Corbin’s presence in the room, and allowed herself to trail her fingers down the length of Crane’s jaw. A small gesture that held the weight of too many things left unsaid she hoped would bridge the gap between them. 

Instead, Crane shied away from her touch in his sleep, angling himself toward the hospital bed where her body lay, still and silent.

She drew back instantly, the stain of his warmth clinging to her fingertips, that traitorous tremble sneaking back into her hands; hope felt so very far away. 

Jaw tightening, Abbie turned to look at Corbin square in the eye. She was done dancing around the subject: She needed answers, and if he wasn’t going to give them to her, he sure as hell was going to let her know where to find them. “Why am I still here?”

His expression went soft around the edges. “Mills...”

“I died in that church, Corbin,” she continued, pressing him for the truth. “I was done. My heart stopped. I felt myself let go of this life, do you understand me?” A spark ran through her veins at those words. “I _need_ to know why I’m still alive.”

Corbin’s smile faltered, then - a sadness in his gaze she didn’t recognize. He brought his hands up to rest on her shoulders, and said, “You’ve done me proud, kid. You and Union Jack over there. But... You’re not done yet.”

“Says who,” Abbie snapped, pulling away from him. “God?” She remembered a time when she didn’t believe in Fate. She still fought back the instinct of rebelling against prophecy, from time to time - against what Crane called their _shared destiny._ She still fought back the revulsion she felt at the thought of not being in control of her own life. And this? Right here? This was exactly why. She was not somebody’s puppet, or some chess piece in a holy war she never signed up for. This was her _life._ This was _bullshit._ And she called it out as such: “This is bullshit.”

“I know.” 

That gave her pause: The Corbin she knew didn’t give up that easily. He also had never sounded so defeated. A sense of foreboding came over her, slithering up and around her stomach, squeezing when he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “What do you know?”

He ran a hand through his hair, shrugging, at a loss. “What do you want me to say, that it’s not fair? Fine: It’s not fair. But they’re... these aren’t my rules.”

“Rules?” She tasted bile on the back of her tongue. “What, so my life is just some kind of game?"

Corbin leaned in close to her, serious now. “This is not a game. You are a Witness, Mills. That means something from where I’m standing.” 

In an instant, he had met her intensity, and she wasn’t sure how they’d gotten to this point. Frustrated, confused, Abbie crossed her arms over her chest. Tapping her foot, she waited for him to continue. “I’m listening.”

Licking his lips, Corbin glanced quickly over his shoulder. “You and I go way back, kiddo - you’re family. I’m on your side, and I always will be. What you need to know now is this: There are forces on both sides of this war that find you far more valuable alive than you are dead, _because of who you are._ ” 

Abbie felt her heart start to pick up speed, and she hugged herself tighter. So she’d been right after all: Seeing Corbin meant nothing but bad news.

“I don’t have a clue why you’re not six feet under right now, but that’s not what you should be worried about.”

Lifting her chin, Abbie whispered, “Tell me.”

In true Corbin fashion, he gave it to her straight: “You need to stop asking me why you’re still alive and you need to start asking yourself who would benefit most from it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken some liberties with Death and What That Means in this story. Thank you for reading - as always, I would love to hear from you if you felt moved in any way.


End file.
